


Pulses Gone and Racing

by orphan_account



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Coping, Depression, Hallucinations, High School, Memory Loss, Mental Health Issues, More tags to be added, POV First Person, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Relapsing, Schizophrenia, it isn’t overly-angsty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2019-04-06 19:52:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14064342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: What such oddity can shake Michael Mell’s world for what seems like an eternity, and cause him to blank out on one particular day?It’s... unknown, really, but he’s set on using what he does know to get to the bottom of all of this. Accompanied by his best friend, Jeremy Heere, he’s absolutely set on finding out what really happened on July 22nd, right after 6 PM.





	Pulses Gone and Racing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> rec·ol·lec·tion  
> /rekəˈlekSH(ə)n/  
> noun  
> the action or faculty of remembering something.

Nobody really knows what’s initially wrong with you; they make assumptions and think that they’re right until you tell them that they aren’t, and then they get offended because you won’t take their advice when it doesn’t even _apply_ to you.

I can’t remember anything that happened after six in the afternoon on the July 22nd preceding my senior year, and that might not seem important to most people, (Who even remembers half of the days they’ve lived when we only store the memories that seem to matter most, honestly?) but it matters to me because I can remember the exact conversation I had just an hour before that. Why would my mind just blank like that? It’s not like I’m a forgetful person; we’re talking about the same brain that can memorize kinematics and logarithms with probably the most precision a high schooler’s brain can have. These things don’t just _happen_.

That day was remarkable, honestly. Jeremy invited me over, and I, having such an amazing social life with an endless amount of friends and girlfriends, set aside my popularity and agreed to hang out with him. I’m definitely not over-exaggerating.

Jeremy pulled me into his room and began talking about something relating to how hard the physics homework we were assigned was, but since I had already completed it, I zoned out by staring at the wall as if it were the love of my life. He seemed to catch on, because he flicked the side of my head with a really frustrated grunt, which therein snapped me out of my space-viewing reverie.

“Dude, pay attention!” said Jeremy, who was frowning. It was a small frown that only slightly tugged down the ends of his lips. Has anybody actually frowned so hard that their mouth formed an upside-down “U” shape? We see people drawing other cartoonish humans like that, as if their mouths were some negative parabola and their face was the grid, but I don’t think I’ve actually seen somebody making a face like we see in really simplistic clip art. Weird.

Anyway, I responded with, “Sorry, sorry,” and he huffed as he took my hand and pulled me back to my feet. I didn’t want to stand up from his bed, but he was tugging on my arm anyway, so I couldn’t really object to my best friend’s silent request.

He was pulling me outside past his unusually creaky front door, and before I could ask him where in the fresh hell we were headed in the middle of the evening without first warning his dad, he was like, “Wanna get some snacks at the CVS nearby?”

“You’ve already yanked me out of the house, so I guess,” I told him, and he just laughed as he let my hand go and bounced off toward the street.

That’s where my memory cuts off, and past that is just static, like the kind you see on TVs when you aren’t able to reach a cable network. I know that at two in the evening on July 23rd, I woke up in my bed with some ibuprofen on my bedside table, and that was an entire ordeal in itself. I had a mini freak-out when I checked my alarm clock and realized that it was already past noon, but when I was told by Mom that it was a Saturday, I was fine. The weirdest thing was getting out of bed, because I immediately felt dizzy and the front of my shirt was crusted with Lord-knows-what. After emptying the contents of my stomach into the toilet, I was forced to waddle downstairs and face my mom and dad, who both looked sad as shit over a plate of chicken and green beans.

“Mom? Dad?” I had asked, and they looked up at me with this pained expression, as if I were one of the abused dogs on those TV commercials and they were too broke to adopt me. It was weird seeing them look at me like that, but I tried to shrug it off.

“Michael, sweetie, are you alright?” Mom spoke first, setting her fork back down onto the plate with a little clink. Seeing the food made my stomach churn with gnawing hunger, but before I would eat, I’d have to figure out why my parents looked so upset to be alive. I came to the conclusion that they were going to file for divorce or something, which would be understandable since they always argue a lot over the smallest things.

Still, I wasn’t sure, so to stay on the safe side, I just answered with a simple, “Yeah, I’m fine.” I chose not to tell them that I had thrown up or that I was famished, since they might’ve forced me to eat right then and there without explaining why they looked to depressed. They never did tell me, but a few days later, I was driven to a small little clinic on the northern area of our town, where I got to meet Dr. Stout.

Dr. Stout is a nice woman. She always wears a ponytail and has this “professionally casual” vibe that accompanies all of her outfits. There’s usually some stylish shawl over what she’s wearing, but it makes her seem more relaxed and approachable; one thing that’s hard to overlook is her huge, circular glasses, though, because they make her look like a female, Korean Harry Potter. Oh yeah, she’s from South Korea, and if I weren’t into men, I’d totally have the hots for her.

I actually enjoy my weekly visits with Dr. Stout. Her office smells like cinnamon and it’s very warm, which makes it really homey and pleasant to be in. Like, I feel more comfortable in there than I do in my own bedroom, hence why I really wish I could stay in there for more than just an hour each week. I’m forced to go to her office regardless, so the fact that it’s pleasant is something I’m eternally grateful for.

It’s still weird, though, to just be woken up one day by your mother saying, “Get dressed, you have an appointment.” When that first happened, I was never told that she had scheduled a psychiatric appointment for me, and I didn’t see the need for her to do that in the first place. I mean, I excel in school and I’m fine with my lack of a real social life—spoiler alert for anyone who actually thought I had more than two friends—because Jeremy’s usually with me whenever I leave the house. But still, now that I have Dr. Stout to talk do on occasion, I like to tell Jeremy about every appointment I have with her.

Sometimes I’ll tell him, “Today, Dr. Stout brought back some snacks from her trip to South Korea and shared some with me,” while other times I’ve said, “Nothing really happened today.” The worst part about having Jeremy over so often to talk to, though, is when my mom walks into my room, unannounced, just to check on me. The sudden creak of my door startles both Jeremy and I, and I have to tell her to get out because we’re having a conversation. Every time, she looks really disturbed, as if I had just yelled at her to “fuck off!” but I’m pretty sure she actually thinks Jeremy and I are dating. Why else would she look so troubled?

Not to say that we aren’t. Actually— it’s a bit complicated. We’ve experimentally kissed the back of each other’s hands before, just to see if there were any sparks, but I don’t think either of us are actually brave enough to make a real move without freezing up. Sexual tension? Maybe.

But today is November 13th and it’s fucking freezing outside, and I’m left alone in my room to think about these things because it’s a Sunday, and Sundays are when I have appointments with Dr. Stout. I don’t think she’s religious, because our appointments fall near nine or ten in the morning, which is when people go to church. I actually haven’t been to church since I was maybe eleven, but that isn’t my point.

Dr. Stout told me this morning to start a new meditation exercise, which she explained to my mom and dad would “help clear my mind a bit more.” I trust her judgement, so I play some white noise on my phone and sit on my bed and close my eyes, so all I can see is darkness. She said that I needed to make my mind completely blank and relax my body, so that’s what I do; I lie back on my bed and take deep breaths, in and out, to match the uneven rhythm of the soft rainfall emitting from my phone.

Doing this makes me feel like I’m floating in nothing, and I have to open my eyes after a while because the white noise stops; I relapse into my heavier self, and my brain throbs again—as it usually does—while I sit back up and put my head in my hands. I’m clammy, but still managing.

Tomorrow, I’ll be forced to go back to school with my mediocre teachers and average classmates, who think they can do a bare minimum just to get their jobs done. They’re right in assuming that they can do it, but whether or not they should be so fucking lazy is another question. That’s why I like people like Dr. Stout. She’s smart and kind and always strives to do her best, look her best, and be her best. I wish I was like her, but getting out of bed is barely manageable at this point. If you would’ve looked at me in junior year, you’d hardly see any similarities.

Still, high school is almost over for me, and I already got accepted into two universities. If all goes well, I’ll have an above-average day tomorrow, and it’ll remain that way for the rest of my high school days.

Another day of life: check.


End file.
